


Crawl Home

by kayceeagitate



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes-centric, Disjointed narrative, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayceeagitate/pseuds/kayceeagitate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They treat him like a machine, call him programmed, call him a weapon. It’s easier for those that would fire him with itchy trigger fingers to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crawl Home

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd so if anything seems weird that is on me. Hope you enjoy.

They treat him like a machine, call him programmed, call him a weapon. It’s easier for those that would fire him with itchy trigger fingers to understand.

 

It isn’t correct.

 

He is merely compliant. He is merely waiting, sleeping, buried deep, hibernating to survive the winter.

 

In a lab in Italy, the initial notes taken on the test subject are finalized with a disappointing _no noticeable effects_ in sharply written German.

 

There is a train and there is a fall that ends in ice and blood, but surprisingly isn’t the end of his story.

 

In another hidden lab location unknown, the test subject’s file is reopened. _Subject survived fall that would likely prove fatal for a non-enhanced subject. Injuries sustained but healing rapidly. Limb loss appears permanent, further action required. Further testing on subject required._

 

The drugs begin. The subject does not know what he does under their influence but whatever it is pleases the man that calls himself the subject’s creator.

 

His mind rebels. He is not a subject.

 

_James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038._

 

The creator keeps the subject aware for limb replacement. Makes the subject watch while a doctor and another man ( _Howard Stark_ , the mind supplies with a bitter note) fit the subject with a metallic arm meant to function exactly like an organic arm yet stronger, better. The creator tells this to the subject. Tells the subject to forget his fear.

 

The mind observes that the face of Howard Stark looks like others they have seen under the influence of the compliance drug. It does little for their anger.

 

_James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038._

 

The subject regains strength. The injuries to the body have long disappeared. The mind makes the subject rebel.

 

Rebellion unsuccessful.

 

_Sergeant, 32557038._

 

The technicians come and never leave. The mind notes this every time the mind and the subject are released from the chamber down the long years.

 

He cannot be trained properly under the full effect of the compliancy drug. The technicians tinker with it, with other drugs, with ways to cause pain without injury, with whispers in the midst of the pain. _Next time it will be worse, next time we’ll kill you._

 

An echo rattles through the subject. _Survive, survive, you’re needed but not yet._ The mind is too tired to remember why he’s needed.

 

_32557038._

 

Any hint of independence outside of the specified parameters is met with the bloom of white fire, the sensation that the body is being turned inside out.

 

_32557038._

_Bucky._

_Bucky._

_Bucky._

 

The creator says, “Your captain is dead. Gone and rotted while you continue to live.”

 

The mind retreats, goes down deep, allows the subject to carry on, allows the subject to become the soldier.

 

_Bucky, c’mon! Where ya hiding, jerk? This isn’t funny!_

 

The mind dreams of a tiny golden haired boy who becomes a golden giant all the while drowning in the pull of need. To protect. To love. The mind hoards every dream of him like coins, like food, like warmth in a bitter freeze.

 

There are small things at times that cause the mind to begin to rise but it always retreats again at the first lick of white fire.

 

A wordless voice cries in the darkness.

 

Is it wordless?

 

The mind is too tired to understand.

 

_Five more minutes, punk._

 

A day comes that is bright with sunlight. The soldier fills it with smoke. The sunlight hurts his eyes.

A moment. A man on a bridge who shines brighter than the sun. A confused and broken call. “Bucky?” It stirs the mind slowly, too slowly. The soldier is forced to retreat.

 

But the voice and the word beat against the soldier’s skull like bird wings against glass and calls the mind from its deep slumber.

 

The mind lacks caution after so long buried, lets slip the words, “But I knew him.”

 

It’s a mistake. It brings the technicians glee. They have an excuse to punish, to make the white fire bloom in the soldier’s head, to see him arch and seize, to rip screams from his throat. They are careful to hide their excitement, give their lie about wiping as if the brain is like a blackboard. Take a damp cloth to it, it’ll be good as new, ready for the next lesson. The politician gives his assent.

 

The mind marks him for death.

 

“You’re ours,” says the first technician.

 

“You’ll always be ours,” says the second.

 

_I’ve never been yours_ , thinks the mind as it slides back down, retreats from the fire. Survival is priority.

 

Accept the pain.

 

Give them what they want.

 

Spring is nearly here.

 

It ends in explosions because the mind mostly leaves the soldier in charge, too slow to wake enough after such a long winter. It aches down deep to leave the man he pulls from the water on the bank, light dimmed from pain and grief.

 

_Grief for us_ whispers the soldier to the mind. Both the subject and the soldier knew they were missing something but the mind divulged nothing.

 

It takes time for the mind to wake, to begin to merge with the soldier and the subject. He holes up in safe house, dim and dusty and unused for many years. It had been Soviet owned and it remains in Russian possession but knowledge of it is certainly buried under decades of bureaucracy.

 

He studies the information at the Smithsonian exhibit.

 

He accepts the pain of the mind waking, pins and needles and stiff joints.

 

He holds in the rage when he gets to the part where Steven Grant Rogers crashed his fool self into a glacier. _Idiot._

 

He is James Buchanan Barnes. He is Bucky. He is the mind, the subject, and the soldier.

 

And as much as Steve wants to find him, Bucky has unfinished business.

 

The technicians come last when Bucky has fully reintegrated with himself.

 

They beg and they plead. Bucky makes their death slow, makes sure they are fully aware of going to the end they thought they could avoid.

 

He is the soldier and he is Bucky. All threats to his independent survival must be eliminated because his survival is essential to Steve’s survival and Steve’s survival is essential to his survival.

 

Bucky goes home again in the middle of a stormy summer night. Steve is asleep in his bed on the 86th floor of Avengers Tower. These are nothing more than facts. He could have broken in easily but the AI is gracious and accomodating. It lets him in the private elevator and takes him directly to Steve’s floor. It even offers to wake Steve for him but Bucky politely declines, citing the desire for a surprise. He just hopes that Steve’s super soldier heart can take the shock.

 

The AI, JARVIS it had introduced itself as, unlocks Steve’s door silently and says nothing else. Bucky is a silent shadow as he moves through the suite. He notes the limited personal effects amidst the luxury that Anthony Stark has provided. He opens the bedroom door without a sound. The glow from the city is dimmed by tinting in the window but it’s enough for Bucky’s eyes to see Steve sprawled out in the bed, probably nude but he can’t tell with the sheet covering up to his waist.

 

Bucky remains silent as he moves next to the bed and crouches down. He stays what he figures is a safe distance away in case Steve reacts poorly to being woken.

 

Then.

 

“Stevie, hey. Wake up, punk.” His voice is feather light in the dimness.

 

Steve bolts upright, like he might leap out of bed to face an attacker, but he freezes, eyes like saucers when he sees Bucky.

 

“Bucky?” Steve breathes. It sounds strangled, shocked.

 

“Yeah, punk?” Bucky is very still, waiting.

 

“That really you?” Steve’s face is disbelieving like he thinks he might still be dreaming.

 

“Yeah, punk,” Bucky answers, face breaking into a smile. He shifts forward, finds himself grabbed and pulled into the bed on top of Steve. The sheet shifts and, yup, Steve is definitely naked.

 

Steve’s mouth is searing against his, soft and perfect, the first hot rays of sun come to melt the ice away. He pulls away momentarily to say, “Missed you, jerk.” Then his mouth is back on Bucky’s.

 

They get as far as Bucky’s hoodie and shirt shoved up, pants undone, dick pulled out (and thank everything that Bucky had picked button fly jeans) before they turn into a sloppy rutting mess. It’d be embarrassing if they actually cared how little time it is before Bucky is collapsed against Steve, their shared come wet and cool between them.

 

Steve eventually pauses pressing kisses to Bucky’s temple to ask, “How much do you remember, Buck?”

  
Bucky presses up slightly to look into Steve’s summer sky blue eyes. “Everything, Stevie. I never forgot. I just had to wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome.


End file.
